When I was a little girl, during the summer months, I would stand across the street from the bus stop, waiting for my mama to come home from work.

Now, I only did this during the summer because it was warm outside, and I could play with the grandchildren of an older Black man who owned the local bar in my neighborhood.

On those hot, sunny days, I would make my way to my little spot and patiently wait for the 30 South Chicago bus to come from the train station. Because it was a slow-ass bus (and it still is), sometimes it wouldn’t arrive on time. But that didn’t matter to me. I knew my mama was coming home.

But now she isn’t.

And no matter how old I get, there will always be a little girl inside me waiting at that bus stop for her mama. Still looking down the street. Still hoping to see that bus coming. Still waiting for the woman who was once her whole world.

And if there is a place we go when we cross over, I like to believe that somewhere, somehow, the roles will be reversed.

This time, my mama will be the one waiting at the bus stop for me.